


That Awful Sound

by Cristinuke



Series: Bang Bang [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 07:02:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2419469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cristinuke/pseuds/Cristinuke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Clint and Phil got seriously injured together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Awful Sound

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the lovely [varjohaltija](http://archiveofourown.org/users/varjohaltija)

It was a goddamn IED, of all things, that would bring them down. Go figure.

They'd been undercover in the Gaza Strip, where their team's mission was to smuggle a high profile asset to safety. They'd succeeded, and had been on their way to the safe house, when the vehicle in front of them had gotten blown up.

Alone and in the dark, with the dust settling, Clint and Phil had realized they were the only ones from their team still alive. Barely, though.

"I can't move, Phil," Clint had gasped out, spitting sand out of his mouth. The force of the explosion had been enough to warp, twist and flip their own car over on its back, and Clint's right leg got pinned down at an awkward angle under the broken dashboard; he couldn't get out from beneath the weight of the car bearing down on him along with his own weight. It just had to be the right leg, didn't it? Clint was going to have to get insurance or something for the poor limb that kept getting mangled and screwed over.

His back felt raw and exposed, and Clint knew he had burns there. Some shrapnel had embedded itself along his right arm, but after a quick glance, Clint knew it wasn't serious enough to make him bleed out.

The thing that would make him die from blood loss was the deep gash in his trapped leg that he hadn't noticed at first. The weight of the broken car was acting as a stopper for now, but it was only a matter of time before his luck ran out.

Clint turned his head to the left to look at Phil. "You still with me?" Phil met Clint's gaze and gave a curt nod, but he grimaced at the movement. Clint couldn't see very well what was wrong with Phil, and it scared him that he wasn't talking.

"Phil, what's wrong? Talk to me, please." Clint coughed and felt the car move. The frame must be loose, and that was going to be bad if it fell before they could get out.

Phil was breathing hard; whatever injury he had sustained sounded bad. "Phil?"

"I umm, I can't really move either." Phil's voice held a lot pain, and that, more than anything, terrified Clint. Phil always worked hard to disguise whatever pain he was in during an op.

"What's wrong?" Clint asked again, eyeing the trembling framework.

There were some more gasps from Phil before he gritted out, "Shrapnel. Clint, it's in my, in my chest." Phil whimpered on the last word, and Clint almost lost it. He'd never heard Phil make that sound before, and he never wanted to.

Clint grunted in pain as he twisted his body the best he could so he could get a better look at Phil. He wasn't mostly hanging upside down like Clint,- he had somehow slipped to the roof of the car and was crumpled in a painful-looking heap. It was too dark to make out much, but he could see that Phil's chest was a darker color than it should have been, and there were some misshapen things protruding from the right side of his chest. From the way that Phil was wheezing, it seemed like the shrapnel could have punctured a lung. He was definitely not breathing right.

"Okay, we can do this, we just have to wait for backup." Clint rattled off distractedly, trying to look for something that he could use to help them. His eyes scanned the broken car, but nothing popped out as particularly helpful. Clint looked back at Phil, and was shocked by the hurt expression on his face. "Phil?"

"Clint…" Phil started, but he cut himself off with a wince and a cough that made him whimper that horrible sound again.

Clint knew what he was going to say, though. He had never heard that tone from Phil, but he'd heard it from plenty of others. It scared him shitless that Phil was giving up. Phil. _His_ Phil. This was the handler that looked down the barrels of guns, walked casually by insane maniacs with knives, disarmed chemical bombs and never flinched once during a plane crash. This was the man who took three packets too many of sugar in his coffee, loved to wear sweatpants when he was off duty, slept on the left side of the bed and hated cockroaches so much he made Clint take care of it whenever he saw one.

And he was giving up.

That was enough for Clint to  force himself to ignore what Phil was about to say, and to talk over him. "They're expecting us at the safe house, and if we don't check in, they're going to look for us. For all we know, they could have had eyes on us and they saw the whole thing. We're going to be fine, Phil." He forced himself to sound hopeful and purposefully didn't mention how they were hours away from the safe house as well as check ins, and the chance of headquarters risking any more time in watching them through the satellite feed at this point were slimmer than slim.

No one was coming for them. They were all alone.

-

Phil knew this was it. This was how he was going to die. Both of them, most likely, since he knew that Clint was hiding a bigger problem than just a trapped leg. Phil figured Clint was bleeding out somewhere, just like him.

It hurt so much to breathe. He definitely only had one working lung, and it was agony. He couldn't move, didn't dare to. He couldn't risk the shrapnel moving and making him bleed out faster. He was also in way too much pain to really care to move. The car was threatening to give out, and if it did that, he'd be dead the moment the car roof slammed down against the embedded metal. Impalement hadn't ever been something that Phil had thought he'd have to deal with. He definitely didn't think he would have died with something skewering him. An explosion, sure. But not this. Not a hunk of metal sticking out of his chest.

Phil could hear Clint trying to be positive, telling him how they were going to get out of here soon. Phil wanted to believe him, he really did, but he had always been logical and practical. There was no logic in hoping for anything at this point. Maybe for a less painful way of dying.

He was surprised by the wave of exhaustion that was rolling through him. Dying was really tiring. Phil turned his head towards Clint, determined to have him be the last thing he sees. The last thing he needs, before he's gone.

His chest ached for a different reason when it finally sank in that Clint really wasn't going to get out of here alive, either. At last he'd seen the steady, dark stain spreading across Clint's leg, and he knew that with the way that Clint was pinned, there was no chance he'd be able to get into a better position to slow the bleeding. He had gravity working against him here.

After everything Clint had gone through, from that shit-show of a mission in Bogota, to Budapest, to the clusterfuck in Serbia, and he was going to bleed out here, in the middle of a fucking desert. It wasn't fair. Clint deserved so much more.

Phil looked down at his chest, clothes soaking through with blood. "This was my lucky tie, dammit." It really had been; Clint had never gotten hurt whenever Phil had worn that tie. Until now.

Phil didn't realize that he had accidentally interrupted Clint until he heard him grit out "Not this time."

"I told you not to ruin my suit, Clint." Phil looked back at Clint, the ghost of a soft smile trying to tug at his lips.

He knew that Clint knew that every time Phil said that, it was his way of telling him to be safe and don't die. Just, don't die.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Phil." Phil knew what he meant. Sorry he got hurt. Sorry he didn't keep his end of the promise. Phil knew that it had been a hard promise to keep anyway. He wouldn't hold it against Clint.

"Hey, no, stay with me, Phil." He heard Clint begging when his eyes shuttered closed. Phil shakily held up a hand in an obvious gesture to give him a moment; his vision kept swimming. It wasn't enough to relax Clint, though, because he went on, "Where do you want to go to dinner this time?"

At that, Phil opened his eyes and looked at Clint in confusion. "What?" His throat felt raspy and sore.

"Dinner, Phil. It's tradition, isn't it? One of us gets hurt, the other has to promise to get them dinner. So what do you want?" Clint coughed and gave a soft groan.

Phil just kept staring at Clint, knowing how open his expression was now. "Clint…" he couldn't help sounding so sad. Defeated. Phil had never admitted defeat before. He supposed there was a first time for everything.

Clint shook his head, "No, we are going to dinner, Phil." This time, when he coughed, Clint scowled. He spit blood off to the side and looked back at Phil. He must have some shrapnel buried in his body somewhere that Phil couldn't see. Clint kept talking, "Two dinners. One for each of us. I want Italian from that place by your apartment. What do you want?" he asked again.

Phil shook his head. He couldn't do it, couldn't humor him. Not this time. "Clint…there's not going to be dinner."

There wasn't ever going to be any more dinners.

-

Clint pointedly ignored the way Phil's eyes were getting misty. He didn't know how much more fake hope he could pretend to have, but he needed to stay strong for Phil. For the both of them.

It was too hard, though.

"Fuck, this isn't fair." Clint whimpered as he instinctively tried to slip his leg free, but it wouldn't budge. He tried again, ignoring the searing pain that traveled up his leg as he pulled harder, but when it still didn't do anything, Clint couldn't help but scream in frustration.

"This isn't _fair_!" He could feel angry tears stinging his eyes, but Clint didn't care. He was trapped and he was going to die. Phil was going to die. Phil wasn't supposed to die. Clint looked at him desperately, trying to understand why Phil was going to die. He never deserved this. Phil was a much better man than he was, so why was he dying?

"Phil, don't die. Please, oh god, don't do this." Clint reached out with his uninjured hand, needing to touch him, needing to know Phil was still here, still alive. His chest loosened slightly when Phil closed the distance and intertwined their hands, squeezing tightly.

Neither of them said anything for a moment, and Clint knew that he had to keep talking, had to keep them both still awake. Still alert. Still alive.

Phil beat him to the punch, though, saying, "You know, you're the reason I got off my lazy ass and became a handler? Your handler, specifically."

It was such a non sequitur that Clint's head was left reeling for a moment. "Mine?" Clint managed.

Phil's lips quirked up into a parody of a smile,- too saturated with pain to be genuine. "Bogota was the last straw. Too much incompetence."

Clint huffed out a strained laugh. "Yeah, I remember. And you're allergic to incompetence."

Phil coughed, a horrible hacking sound. "I needed you to live." Clint's eyes widened. "You were dying, but I couldn't bear it. You were too…" Phil trailed off. Clint understood what he meant, though. Phil was like that too.

"Anyway. I couldn't risk anyone handling you but me." Phil finished, breathing hard. Clint could feel how clammy and cold Phil's hand was getting, and tears welled up in his eyes again.

"It took me seeing you dying in my arms to realize that I had to get my head out of my ass and ask you out on a date. A real date." Clint whispered. He saw Phil smile weakly at that, and he squeezed his hand. "I'm glad I did."

The tears spilled out unwillingly.

-

"I'm glad you did too." Phil whispered back. He couldn't bear seeing Clint like this, but he refused to look away. "Clint…" Phil started.

Clint looked down at him with huge eyes, expression more vulnerable than he'd ever seen before. Clint squeezed his hand in encouragement, and Phil continued, "Thank you. For everything." His vision was going blurry in a way that meant he was crying too. The adrenaline was fading from his system, and he was starting to feel too much of the pain.

"I love you, Clint." Phil breathed out, needing to say the words, needing Clint to know how much he meant it.

"No, no, fuck, no," Clint looked scared. "Don’t say that, not now. Not like it's your last…not now, please, no. Tell me at dinner. Tell me then, and then I can tell you the same, but not here, please, Phil, not here."

Phil closed his eyes and nodded in understanding. He opened them again to see Clint shaking. "Dinner, then." Phil assented, throat rasping uncomfortably.

He couldn't keep his eyes open anymore. It was too hard, and it hurt too much. He heard Clint panic, but he couldn't do it anymore. He squeezed his hand, hoping it was enough. It was going to have to be enough.

"No, no, no, don't do this to me, Phil. Please, don't leave me. Not now, oh god, please not now." Clint was begging him with a thick voice.

Phil wanted to reassure him, tell him, _no, I won't leave you. I can't leave you_ , but it got stuck in his throat. He couldn't make the words come out, not around his thinning breath, the lack of air making him too lightheaded. Besides, he figured he really should stop lying to Clint.

"Phil? Please don't die, you can't die. Don't leave me here alone, Phil, I need you, I need-" Clint's voice disappeared, and Phil felt cold. He still felt his hand in his. Where did-…?

"Phil? Phil, you hear that?" Clint's voice came back, and it was tinged with an emotion Phil couldn't place.

"Phil! Wake up, please. Someone's here! Hello! We're-" Coughing. "We're over here!"

Phil appreciated Clint's attempts to give him hope, but he just couldn't do it anymore. He was fading fast…he'd lost too much blood, he knew that.

"Help! Help!" Clint was calling out, voice thin and reedy, but clear. It hurt Phil's ears in the small space, and he wished Clint would stop trying so hard. It wasn't going to change anything. Phil would be happy to die with Clint's hand in his.

But then.

But then, he _did_ hear something…was that….people? It had to be…people speaking….Hebrew? Phil couldn't follow the words anymore, but he heard the urgent tones of multiple people. And Clint. Clint was speaking too?

Suddenly, his hand went cold, and Phil made a reproachful noise. Where did Clint go? He was right here. He was going to stay with him, help him. No, he needed Clint…why would he leave him? He didn't want to be alone, not now, not yet.

Hands. Hands? They were all over Phil. Oh god, it hurt. They were pulling, and shifting, and god, stop it, it hurts. Where was Clint? Clint should have been here. He couldn't breathe, there was something on his face. Where was Clint? Phil reached out again, but there was nothing but air to grab. More people speaking…too quickly…not English. Clint? Come back, Clint. Please come back.

 _Don't leave me. Not yet. I don't want to go alone. Don’t make me go alone_.

In the end, it didn't matter. The darkness swept over Phil with an unforgiving force.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first thought that ran through Phil's mind when he groggily woke up, was that this was the worst hangover he'd ever experienced.

He was beyond confused, achy in a way that suggested he'd done actual damage to himself, nauseous, and just generally feeling like shit. He didn't bother opening his eyes at first, because everything was already too much for him. There were sounds everywhere and Phil was having a hard time paying attention to what they were over his own loud breathing.

Breathing….that sounded off? It sounded louder than normal, and sort of…irregular, too. Now that he thought about it, it was feeling pretty difficult to get a good, deep breath in. Phil tried, and immediately whimpered at the pain that shot through his tight chest.

"Phil? You awake?" He heard a voice from off to the side. Phil's slow brain slowly supplied that it was Clint's voice. Clint was here. Why was Clint here?

Where was _here,_ anyway?  

Phil forced himself to open his eyes, and it took him a long time and a lot of blinking to get used to the ambient light. It wasn't really that bright; the room he was in was dim, in a 'late-evening' sort of way.

Phil tilted his head to the left, in the direction of where Clint's voice had come from, and he immediately saw Clint, lying down in a bed right next to Phil's. Clint was watching Phil intently, clearly awake and alert, and Phil got the impression that Clint had been watching him sleep. He was so close that Phil could clearly see every detail of his face, which included a lot of scratches and bruises. He was so close that Phil could have reached out and touched him, and before he knew what he was doing, he did just that. His hand fumbled over the mattress to Clint's, and as soon as Clint saw, he reached out with his hand and grasped Phil's in his own.

The contact instantly made Phil feel better, and he relaxed against the mattress, not knowing he had been tense until then.

"Hey," Phil whispered, feeling too weak to make much more sound. His head was still fuzzy, and it was a struggle to breath. He finally realized that he had an oxygen mask on, and that was the reason why his breathing sounded louder to him. The mask kept fogging up, but past experience made him feel calmer at the sight and feel of it.

Phil felt like his breathing was getting a little bit easier when he saw Clint's face split into a huge grin. His chest felt tight, but for another reason, a good reason, and Phil was still trying to figure out what had happened.

It all came rushing back to him when Clint triumphantly whispered, "We made it. We're alive."

Everything. The explosion, the terror, the pain, the gasping, the wishing, the quiet confessions, the desperate pleadings. Everything.

His sudden revelation must have caused his heart monitor to start beeping too fast, because Clint suddenly got a pinched look on his face, and he squeezed Phil's hand while calling out his name.

"Phil? Phil, hey, easy, it's okay, we're okay." Clint tried to soothe him, but Phil couldn't help the gasping bubble of laughter that pushed through his aching chest. That seemed to bring Clint up short with a confused look.

Phil laughed again, wincing at the way it pulled at sore muscles, and just gritted out, "We're alive. Oh god, we're alive? How?"

Clint's grin came back in full force, lighting up his face entirely. "We're alive, Phil. Some locals had been driving along the road, and they saw us. They called for help immediately and we got rescued. Phil, we got out. They took us to the hospital, and we're alive, Phil." He repeated it, giving Phil the impression that Clint was still in a state of disbelief.

"How long?" Phil asked, feeling sore all over his body.

A dark shadow passed over Clint's expression before he tried to rein it back in. He was failing, though, and Phil could plainly see the deep worry and fear that Clint was feeling. "Clint?" Phil prompted softly.

Clint blinked hard and seemed to steel himself before answering, "It was…it was hard. They didn't know if you were going to m-make it…" Clint seemed to falter for a moment before marching on, "You've been out for four days, Phil."

Phil could hear everything that Clint wasn't saying. He could still hear him begging Phil to not die, and he could easily imagine all the other things Clint must have said to him while he was unconscious. It must have been a fresh new agony, and Phil hated that he was the reason to put that misery on Clint.

Phil opened his mouth to apologize, but Clint was too fast, changing the mood abruptly with a cheery, "But we're here, Phil. We're alive. And guess what?" Clint was rubbing his thumb absentmindedly across Phil's hand, and his smile was too infectious.

Phil decided to let it go, and give in to Clint. He always gave in to Clint when he could. "What?"

"Fury himself is here. He's going to take us home soon." Clint was beaming from ear to ear, and Phil couldn't stop from smiling back. His smile felt thin, though, and Phil realized that he was still on some really heavy drugs as his eyelids seemed to droop lower and lower.

He forced himself to speak, though, saying, "'M glad. I miss home." He was slurring, but he didn't care. He didn't want to leave Clint behind again.

"And you know what that means?" Clint asked happily.

Phil managed a "Mmm?"

"You get to take me to that Italian place. Gotta keep up the tradition." Phil smiled lazily and squeezed Clint's hand in agreement.

Clint squeezed back, and in a softer voice, murmured, "Go back to sleep, Phil. Gotta rest up for that date." Phil held Clint's hand tight and shook his head in disagreement, not wanting to lose sight of Clint again. He felt betrayed by his own body when it refused him and his eyes kept closing.

"No, no, wait," Phil protested, trying hard to stay awake.

He felt Clint bring their hands up to his face, and then felt the gentle press of lips on his hand. Phil fought to open his eyes and saw Clint smile softly at him.

"Sleep, Phil. I'm staying right here. I'm not going anywhere." Clint kept their hands by his face, nuzzling into the back of Phil's wrist.

Phil was losing against the hard medication he was on, and Clint was right there. He trusted Clint beyond belief, and if Clint said he was going to be there, then he knew that he would keep his promise.

Phil was dragged back under, comforted by the notion that he wasn't going to be alone. He had Clint holding onto him.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think :D


End file.
